He saw Elizabeth before she saw him.
She sat in the pavilion his mother had commissioned the year before her death—a small classical folly of white columns and a domed roof, set at the water’s edge where one might watch the swans without being troubled by the wind. A book lay open in her lap, and her face was turned toward the far shore, where Rose Cottage stood half-hidden among the birches. A basket sat beside her on the bench—the remains of a small tea, and her hairhad loosened slightly in the breeze, a dark curl escaping near her temple.
She appeared as if she had been sitting in that pavilion for years, reading by the lake, watching the swans drift past—as if Pemberley had always been hers.
His boot scraped the gravel, and Elizabeth looked up, her expression unguarded—startled, with a glimmer of pleasure, as though she had been waiting to share some private jest. She closed the book, which he recognized at once as one of his mother’s journals. Relief, swift and unexpected, swept through him as she greeted him.
“Mr. Darcy. I did not expect you until evening.”
“The roads were favorable.” He climbed the pavilion steps and stood before her, suddenly uncertain what to do with his hands. “I trust you have been well?”
“Tolerably well. Pemberley still stands, and all the swans are accounted for.” Her lips curved with a tiny smile. “Why, Mr. Darcy, you have not changed. Was the journey as arduous as the riding dust suggests?”
He glanced down at himself—mud-spattered boots, dusty coat, cravat wilting from days of travel—and felt heat rise to his cheeks. He ought to have changed before seeking her out. Any sensible man would have bathed, dressed, and presented himself as a gentleman rather than a vagabond who had ridden the last ten miles without stopping.
“I came directly from the stables,” he admitted. “I wished to… that is, I thought I should…” He stopped, aware that he was making a hash of it. “I wished to see you first.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Before bathing? Before changing? Before so much as removing your gloves?” The smile deepened, touching her eyes now. “I am flattered, Mr. Darcy. I had not realized my company was so urgently required. I assure you, Ihave not stowed away on any ships bound for the Americas, nor otherwise absconded or hidden myself in the cupboard.”
His lips twitched, wariness notwithstanding. Elizabeth’s cheeks were bright, her spirits evidently high. No doubt her triumphs with Thomas and the Apethorpes, her command of Pemberley, had lent her this ease. Yet her eyes still held a trace of caution, though the frost had melted.
“I understand that you managed the Apethorpe visit admirably.”
“Admirably is generous. There was an incident with Harley and the Countess’s fear of fleas, and Thomas threw a fit of considerable magnitude.” Elizabeth’s voice was dry, but something warmer moved beneath it. “The Countess fled to the settee and the Earl positioned himself as though defending against Napoleon’s cavalry. It was not my finest hour as a hostess.”
“On the contrary, I would have loved to witness your finest moments.” He lowered himself to the seat next to her so she had no need to squint into the setting sun. “I hear they departed satisfied.”
“They departed understanding, which is perhaps more valuable. They wished to see that Thomas was loved, and I believe they saw it.” She hesitated. “The Countess was… more forthcoming than I expected about her daughter.”
Darcy said nothing. He did not know what Lady Apethorpe might have revealed about Amelia, and he was not certain he wished to find out.
“She will write when they return from the Lakes,” Elizabeth continued. “Their path brings them through Derbyshire again, and she expressed a wish to call. I thought—if you are agreeable—we might invite them to the dinner party. The magistrate and his sister were out of the vicinity, and Saturday next would coincide with their return.”
“An Earl and Countess at our table would certainly elevate the occasion.”
“It would also provide a certain… counterbalance.” Elizabeth’s eyes met his. “Mr. Wickham has been settled in the west wing. I thought it best to keep him at some distance from the family quarters.”
“Yes, my sentiments exactly.”
“I am certain Georgiana is quite beside herself to see him,” she remarked, plucking at a ribbon on her sleeve. “Though I suspect she will be disappointed not to receive the promised Kashmiri shawl, and I suppose he has yet to encounter the rear of an elephant.”
“He has squandered the commission on cards and wine,” Darcy said. “Which makes him amenable.”
“Another signature, Darcy? What price is he extracting?” Her eyes darted, avoiding his gaze. “Will he be on his way to parts unknown once his business here is completed?”
She seemed to hold her breath as he searched for an answer. Wickham’s words echoed in his memory, designed to provoke him.
“My brother has no plans, and as we have seen, his movements are subject to change. Do not be surprised if he parleys every incident into an advantage. He is eager to… as he says… to renew your acquaintance.” He watched her carefully, noting the flush on her cheeks. “However, he is also a master at suggesting more connection than warranted.”
“Then I shall endeavor to keep my wits about me, and let your sister hold the conversation.”
“Yes, a worthwhile endeavor. He is adept at hunting for weaknesses and needs.”
She darted him a glance, her brow knit, before picking up his mother’s journal. “We have spoken enough about him. I find the subject wearisome. Tell me instead—do you object to my readingyour mother’s journals? I ought to have asked permission, but they were stored in my bedchamber.”
“I gave you the keys to everything.” His lips almost added the words, my love, but he stopped.
“Even so.” Elizabeth looked down at the journal, her fingers tracing the worn leather. “It feels rather like eavesdropping on conversations I was never meant to hear. She writes so intimately—about you as a boy, about Georgiana as an infant, about…” She hesitated. “About George. The child he was, before he became the man you describe.”
